The Flying Physio Room Part LXXI

Wednesday 31 January. 07:36. Rush Green. Mild. Dank. A hefty slice of uncertainty intermingled with a damp sense of confused anger.

The training ground was quieter than usual. David Boyles dragged the razor across his eyebrows to ensure a clean, smooth surface. Squeezing the last boil on his neck (a perennial problem since his teenage days which had blighted his career as a model) he took a sip from his camomile tea (infused with seaweed). Boyles knew what it meant to have a healthy body and mind.

Growing up in the slums of Scotland he’d endured hardship. Daily beatings from his sister, an absent mother, his workaholic father. A confused childhood, looking for mentors, dressing as a girl from the age of 3 – 15, David learnt to hide his feelings and grow a tough skin. Kids from the estate, nicknaming him “Davina” would throw haggis at him and take his dinner money.

Well not these days. No no-one put Boyles in the corner and threw haggis at him. No-one would ever take his money. And if he did have to spend money, he’d make damn sure he knew it was going to be money well spent.

Boyles was legendary for taking over an hour in the canteen to surmise the offerings before making his choice, even then bartering the price.

Doris, the canteen lady, had spent many an afternoon berating that “Gollum twat” (although never called him this to his face, she was too scared to look at him).

But Boyles was proud of his astute and thrifty management.

He knew this job was almost a last chance saloon from a premier league career point of view. Some questionable decisions had tainted his proud record at Preston and Everton. He knew the Utd job was a poison chalice. But after his game of strip poker with Fergee and Steve Bruuce, losing the game and being filmed dancing naked in a hot tub and signing the contract to succeed Sir Alix (a job everyone knew would be futile) he was on a downward spiral faster than a middle aged white man with an opinion.

Sky Sports cackled away in the background on the monitor and Boyles could see the headlights of the camera crews venturing outside the car park. Some dopey reporter would be spending the next 18 hours camped next to a tree in a north face jacket under a brolley commenting on passing traffic. One wonders what sort of aspirations these people had at the start of their careers.

The lead presenter on the TV, Jim Brown nose, notable through his quirky and completely funny yellow tie, appeared to be trying to fellate himself live on TV, a feat many agreed he tried regularly.

Boyles knew the task at hand had grown out of proportion since he had taken over. A squad in disarray fitness wise, multiple characters not buying in to team ethics and attitudes worse than Britain First supporter.

Boyles knew he would have to act fast to resolve, but this was so against his nature. He’d spent many hours poring over the targets, seeing if they would be compatible with the team for next week/month and beyond. This club was caught in a spiral of sticky plaster plans. The future seemed a dream and quick fixes were the order of the day. Boyles couldn’t work that way, but knew feelings on the terraces were high, action demanded, wallets opened.

This would be an entirely new challenge for the Scottish hunk…..

Across the Essex heartland Sully was enduring a similarly testing morning. The plastic ball in his mouth, held in place with a leather strap that was part of the gimp mask, dug into his teeth harder with each thrust.

The new “Brown star raider” (available @ £19.99 at all good adult outlets) was certainly exploring new territory. Mrs Sully particularly enjoyed this part of the arrangement. “Listen ‘ere ya facking midge, if yes carnt take itcha carnt give it do ya get me?” she squealed.

Sully had assumed the position (many deriving from this as the driving force of his retribution against fans) and had taken it like a man.

As each driving squeal was omitted, Sully sought tranquillity in trying to recite the list of free agents. Mrs Sully could tell he was wondering to those thoughts again and gripped the back of his hair, pulling back and thrusting the raider forward.

Sully felt as though a broom stick had been taken to him as his toupee was torn from his head, but it was the snapping sound that was of more concern. As robust as the raider was, it was no match for the powerful hips of Mrs S. The plastic phalice has sheared off halfway down. The end nowhere to be seen.

“Oh fackit! Well this is no bleedin good is it, where the fack dya git this made bleedin china?!” squealed the love of his life.

Sully knew something was up…..literally. “What the bloody hell have you done woman?!” roared Sully.

He felt down to his anus but nothing was there, “Its bleedin snapped orf!” moaned Mrs S.

“So where the ruddy hell is the other end?!” enquired sully, the tome of panic rising in his voice…..

”Ew….erm” Mrs S began to realise the significance of the situation.
“It’s in fackin side me isn’t it you daft trollop? What the facking ell ave you done? Its bloody deadline day and you’ve snapped a love length off in my crack?! They’ll bloody well ‘ang me!!!”

Sully began to sweat.

15 hours to quell the demand of a raging supporter base, and he was literally fucked.

“Quick, drive me to the ‘ospital now you daft mare, you got me in this!!”

Mrs Sully unclamped the strap on and put her fur (real) coat on.

“Bloody ell, I’ve got a nail appointment at 10 so if it aint sorted by the Guld to bring you back” moaned Mrs S.

Sully began sweating. A mixture of fear and uncomfortableness. How on earth was he going to get through this?

The sky sports van, parked outside the gate, were surprised by the screeching of tyres. Coffee and donuts were thrown to the dashboard. The long lens cameras were pulled from bags and the lead reporter fixed his earpiece, typing

“Movement at Sully HQ” into his mobile.

The response was instant.

Jim Brown nose knew his old friend would not let him down. Ample gossip and rumour would stoke his fires tonight as he stroked himself under the desk in front of the camera.

“We go live now to the Sully residence where we believe things are hotting up nicely!!”

The camera blinked into life. Boyles, just beginning his tofu and melon, was surprised by the developments. His email last night read “Keep schtum. Maybe a couple of loans, you don’t need to be involved”. His piercing eyes drawn to the screen.

“You join us here live at the Sully residence where I can tell you things are moving fast! We expected there to be developments and this is no disappointment!! Let us see if we can get a word with the owner now!” the intrepid reporter, giddy with excitement at being the first of his colleagues to generate a buzz.

However, it soon became clear whoever was driving was not paying sufficient attention to the driveway. Sully moans and protestations and he knelt on the backseat, fishing and grabbing hold of the end of the phalice, distracting Mrs S. Turning too late, the reporter was catapulted into the air. The car careering into the fence. The doors thrown open and its occupants discarded like oily rags.

An early morning audience had far more than they bargained for. Sully, in a leather cat suit, opened at the back with what appeared to be a half a broom handle sticking out of his backside.

Once the Fire Brigade had rescued the dazed reporter from the tree and taken statements from all concerned, Sully was allowed on his way to hospital. Jim Brown nose was sobbing uncontrollably in his dressing room, Sky Sports taken from the airways for the graphic showing which had gathered more than 1.2M complaints.

At Rush Green, the staff could not find Boyles. But the puzzling smell of haggis lingered in the air…..